


sticks and stones

by Batman



Series: jaywalkers [21]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 11:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8710852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batman/pseuds/Batman
Summary: 'Hey,' Bokuto says, and Kei stops. He doesn't turn around, but he stops.Bokuto's voice is low. 'If you break something, see it through. Don't break shit you don't plan on fixing.'Today in jaywalking: bananas, curtains, and slightly stretched definitions of long drive.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [палками и камнями](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14267355) by [MsFlaffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsFlaffy/pseuds/MsFlaffy)



> I said this to someone in the comments of _so we sing,_ but I want to tell a story and not a detached one. I'd hate to keep anyone anxious after the last update. SO HERE I AM AGAIN, FIVE DAYS LATER. 
> 
> It's December! I didn't have the best November one could possibly have (I don't think any of us did) so here's to Christmas (again!) and lights everywhere and mulled wine and chocolate coated fruit and _crêpes_ and my city, Strasbourg, which rightfully calls itself the Christmas capital of Europe. 
> 
> November was terrible. Let's dust ourselves off and open our advent calendars. (I do not have an advent calendar as I am not of this faith. (Also, I used to think advent was a fic exchange because everyone was doing fics for advent.))

Growing up, Kei, at some point— or a series of points drawing his childhood and adolescence and constantly twinging conscience into the kind of clean lines that he likes to put down in his notes— learned that living a life that revolved halfway around missing pieces and halfway around the only remaining one would be much easier if he increased the blame of the universe from forty percent to eighty. Easier, and maybe even funnier, for the benefit of his friends who treat him as walking bad luck at this point, and for himself when he thinks about his day. The universe against him; the universe this, the universe that, a cosmic fight in front of the coffee machine, every quotidian success some sort of spiteful victory over what the goddamn universe took from him. Every quotidian success some sort of repentance for all the ways in which he's hurt himself more than the universe ever hurt him.

This is all on him, this time. This isn't the universe, this isn't anyone else, this isn't life or circumstances or the fact that he was stressed, he was angry, he was hurt. No, this is entirely Tsukishima Kei, having made the choice to crush and bruise not the only good thing the universe gave him, but rather the only one that he reached out for instead of accepting with grudging gratefulness. The only person that he ever invited, more than let in— and that's all on him. It's his own hands that he's painfully aware of, shaking when they don't have anything else to do, curling into fists to calm themselves. It's his own mind that came up with the words and his own mouth that said them, and the kind of misery that it brings is so foreign to him. (After all, Kei isn't a stranger to hurting someone without wanting to— but Kei _is_ a stranger to having done it so concisely, so horribly, and with that horrid shameful need to get a reaction.)

Bokuto hasn't spoken to him in a week. At the very least, Kei is shamed into being grateful that Bokuto doesn't have enough spite in himself to even pointedly ignore him: all he does is avoid eye contact even more than Kei does, shouldering past with his gaze fixed on the floor and his voice low. And in the first place, he hasn't seen Bokuto all that much since that night when they last crossed each other at Vertigo; deadlines are approaching, people are tired, and Kei wants to guess that Bokuto's packed up and gone over to—

He— Kei. Kei is in class. Kei is in class, it's almost ten in the morning. And he knows he's slept but doesn't feel rested, and life is miserable with a kind of petulant keening that is all at once the worst and most shameful thing he's ever experienced.

The funniest— no. It's not funny. Oh, for _fuck's_ sake Kei is tired of being sarcastic about everything. He's tired of being caustic for the moment, almost as if his mind had been _waiting_ for some kind of jolt so that he could take it down a notch for once. It's not funny, but it _is_ ironic: the very day he'd walked home from Vertigo in a daze, unlocked his door somehow and locked it again on the other side, stood with his forehead pressed to the wood and eyes looking sightlessly down at the keys still in his hand with the lock twisted for five, ten minutes— when he'd walked away from the door and sat on the bed without taking his shoes off, fifteen, twenty minutes— when he'd been sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the floor.

Right. He was going somewhere with this. When Kei was sitting on the bed that night after walking home from Vertigo, he'd heard his doorbell, shrill and brief, and nearly jumped out of his skin. Then he'd gathered himself and opened the door, right in the face of Yamaguchi— still in his stained sweatshirt and with the widest grin on his face, looking so ecstatic and triumphant about something that Kei couldn't even begin to process it.

But Yamaguchi's smile had slipped off quickly, the moment he caught sight of Kei's face, and for once Kei didn't have anything witty to say when he stepped aside and let Yamaguchi in.

It's not funny. He actually found out from Hinata the next day that Yachi had ended up adopting a puppy from the shelter, and he _had_ laughed a little then, anyway. At least someone was getting their life together; at least Yamaguchi had _initially_ been smiling when Kei opened the door.

Kei is in class. It's half past ten in the morning.

 

●●●

 

Bokuto hasn't spoken to him in ten days.

Ten days after he was last there, Kei finds himself in Vertigo again. Even more against his will than last time, but pushed to a point where he doesn't care anymore, music blending into laughter blending into the percussion unwelcome in his chest as he leans his elbows on the bar and stares at a green bottle of something on the shelves behind the counter. He knows he's got one of those expressions that would push bartenders to slip him something quietly on the house, and he's too tired to rectify it; too tired to refuse the drinks in the first place. His head is heavy with it, but only just. It takes the edge off, maybe, or makes it worse.

He would've skipped out, but they're done with the last microeconomics final of the year, and considering that he's always been one of the class toppers, he was dragged straight to the club from class before he could even formulate a protest. It isn't bad, really, if he tries not to focus on the constant sense of discontent that he's had for over a week now. (And really, Kei hadn't noticed how _content,_ even if not ecstatically happy, he had been until he ruined it. It's one of those things that are quiet and constant until they aren't, until there is a rip in the fabric, a crack in the wall. A breaking point that he hadn't seen coming because they were doing such a good job of doing such a good job of doing such a _good job._ )

'Yeah, I told them not to—'

Kei looks up from the bottle and then regrets not keeping his gaze trained on it immediately. Bokuto's blinking at him blankly before his grip tightens on his phone, face frosting over for only a brief second as if he was too surprised to maintain appearances, and that gets to Kei more than anything else would have. It would've been better, almost, if Bokuto had sneered and said _you, here?_ If Bokuto had glared, or turned away, or— or— anything but this. What bothers Kei almost as much as what he did in the first place is the fact that he was so _careless_ about it. That he didn't pause to realise that the two of them don't exist in a vacuum, that doing this would mean that Bokuto would know, that maybe Akaashi would know, maybe Kenma would know— that Yamaguchi would know, that Furihata, who saw him leave abruptly, would know. That when you hurt someone you hurt their friends, and that when you hurt yourself you hurt yours. That consequences spiral out in a web, don't swirl in a test tube.

And Kei, who was finally beginning to find a place.

He gets up, leaves his jacket on his barstool so that he has a place to sit down and stare at more bottles for the rest of the night, makes for the bathroom.

'Hey,' Bokuto says, and Kei stops. He doesn't turn around, but he stops.

There's a little bit of silence. Or, at least, as silent as things can get when they're in the middle of a goddamn club, music blending into laughter blending into the percussion unwelcome in his chest.

Bokuto's voice is low. 'If you break something, see it through. Don't break shit you don't plan on fixing.'

 _Don't disassemble something you don't know how to reassemble._ Kei can hear it in some faceless professor's voice, because it sounds exactly like the kind of advice he'd hear in a seminar. He'd laugh if the lump in his throat would let him, but as it is, he can't. So all he does is stay there for a second longer to let Bokuto know he's heard him, and then starts walking again.

 

●●●

 

It's Akaashi who finds him in the bathroom.

Kei's leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest in a hilariously reminiscent pose, staring at the floor which is still amazingly clean given that it's almost ten in the evening. The lights are uncomfortably bright, especially compared to the neon-lined dark outside, but Kei supposes that in the end he's not really staring at anything in particular. He's not really doing anything in particular, just letting the dull thump of the music outside wash over him as people come and go and cast him an occasional look, probably wondering if he's drunk. (He wish he was, but he's only just.)

Akaashi is most probably not on duty yet. Kei actually knows his schedule decently by now; he takes over at midnight and sets up the station, the crowd's favourite for more than just the music he arranges. He'll queue up a few filler tracks once in a while, to go and get himself a drink, dance a little with Bokuto if their breaks synchronise. And they do; Bokuto's in love, something Kei would have scoffed at ten days ago. (There are a lot of things that Kei would have scoffed at ten days ago, which don't seem funny in the least anymore.)

Akaashi is most probably not on duty yet, so he's only here to wash his face, check his hair. And he does, but not before taking a glance at Kei. Kei sees him do it but doesn't bother to explain himself, because out of the four of them, Akaashi is the most perceptive and kindest about it, probably. (Kei, after all, probably doesn't have a very good judgement of what is kind and what isn't.) So he doesn't bother to explain himself, just looks at Akaashi for a moment and then averts his gaze to his shoes.

And it works, mostly. At the very least, Akaashi doesn't say anything for a long, long while after he's done smudging his kohl with the tip of his little finger, pulled on the hem of his classic white T-shirt. He stares at Kei, but not heavy, not loaded and emotional the way Bokuto's gaze was. No, he's just looking, waiting so patiently as if Kei is actually going to find something to say after all, when they both know he isn't. And Kei, who didn't expect the kind of respect he doesn't think he deserves right now, feels that lump in his throat grow more pressing, more urgent.

Then Akaashi turns back towards the mirror and only looks at his own face as he says, 'I can show you how the sequencer works, if you want. You could pick a song or two.'

He pauses for a second before adding, 'I won't tell Kuroo-san which song you picked.'

Something wells up inside him at the name, said so casually, so naturally, all of it— as if— as if Kei hasn't done anything _so_ bad after all, as if it isn't entirely, uselessly, irreparably over— and Kei, who didn't expect the kind of confidence he doesn't think he deserves right now, looks up. Smiles.

'I might break it,' he says.

Akaashi doesn't say anything for so long that Kei thinks he's done it all over again. Then:

' _Kei._ '

He makes a pathetic, strangled sound that he's quick to reel in, but nowhere near quick enough; it echoes easily in this place designed for echoes unlike outside where his sheer misery was drowned out by a thousand other sounds. It echoes, and he hides his face in his hands and hunches over, but he resolves not to make another noise.

The tears come hot and quick, then. What's more surprising is that they aren't surprising; after all, if everything with Kuroo is strange and new, this might as well be a part of it all. Just because they aren't surprising doesn't mean he knows what to do with them; he's a little afraid, a lot sad, mostly just wishing he could curl up in bed and stop feeling lonely when people are all around him. He didn't have the foresight to take his glasses off before pressing his hands to his face, and now their edges are uncomfortable on the bridge of his nose and he's sure they're going to come away with the lenses dripping wet and scratched, but Kei— Kei just wants to cry.

There isn't really any thought in his head when Akaashi puts a hand in his hair, scratches his fingers lightly over Kei's messy lightened curls. The reason he's crying is so obvious that he doesn't actually know why he's crying, after all. It just keeps taking over him in waves; every time he thinks he can stop, he starts over again, the sound of it getting harder and harder to contain in his throat, even though he always manages. He doesn't know what to think, doesn't know who to talk to, doesn't know where to find forgiveness. Doesn't know where to find forgiveness.

Doesn't know where to look for forgiveness, until he does.

And the moment he realises, the first breeze of calm washes over him. He feels it from his head to toe, the way the tears start to ebb, the way breathing becomes easier until he can actually straighten up, take the paper towel Akaashi has ready and press it to his eyes.

'Thank you,' he says quietly, clears his throat when his voice isn't as steady as he'd like it to be. 'I'm just...I'm going to call it a night, I think.'

Akaashi's eyes are sharp and careful. 'Would you like for me to walk you home?'

Kei smiles, and it's very, very, very small, he knows; smaller even than his usual smiles. But at the very least, it doesn't pull at his lips like thorns.

'I'm okay,' he says. 'I'm going to call someone.'

 

●●●

 

It isn't until Akiteru picks up on the third ring with a hoarse 'Kei?' that he actually stops to think about what he's doing. He didn't all the way until now, all the way home as he toed off his shoes and climbed into bed with his back to the wall, phone in his hands.

'Kei? Are you all right?'

'Sorry,' he says wildly. 'I—'

And in a way, all the reasons he couldn't come up with back in the bathroom at Vertigo come rushing to him. He understands that he always means well, or at least he thinks he does, but by the time that sentiment climbs up from his chest to his throat, his sardonic mind has managed to twist the expression so that when he opens his mouth all he says is ridden with thorns. He can't believe it took him so long to understand this. He can't— when he— when he said he was looking for forgiveness— he can't believe that he has the audacity to call Akiteru at ten in in the evening, who loves him more than he's ever had any human being love him. He can't believe that he has the audacity to be in love with Kuroo Tetsurou after hurting him so keenly. He can't believe himself.

'Sorry. I'm sorry. Go back to sleep. I misdialed.'

'I'm driving over.'

Kei frowns, hurries to clear his jumbled thoughts. Clears his throat.

'What? Aki— it's past ten—'

'Shut up,' Akiteru says. Kei blinks, and then physically lowers his phone and blinks again at the screen. That— in all these years, not once— he hurries to put it back to his ear. 'Eat some bananas or something. I'll see you in a while, and I'll keep texting.'

Before he can get a single word in, the call ends and he's left sitting with his phone still pressed to his ear. Of all things, it reminds him suddenly of the way Bokuto always used to turn up at his door when he didn't reply to texts, all the way in the beginning of the year that feels like so, so, so long ago, when the air was hot and Kei's music library was different because it was the same he'd had for years, then. It reminds him of Bokuto, and the comparison makes him laugh a little despite the ache in his chest because they're anything but similar, Bokuto and Akiteru. He laughs until he remembers that they're anything but similar and that Bokuto hasn't spoken to him in too long a time and he can't do anything right. He can't do anything right. He can't do one fucking thing right.

He feels that horrible onset of tears again, like he did at goddamn Vertigo, and he grits his teeth against it. Gets up, runs his hands through his hair, and goes to get himself a banana.

 

●●●

 

At the very least, he's not the only one in this student apartment feeling ridiculously out of his depth and also all of twelve years old. If anything, despite it all, Kei _knows_ his brother inside out. Has loved him for so long, after all. He knows that Akiteru said he's driving over in a fit of bravado, and in the three and a half hours that it took him to actually get to the city, had about fifty three second thoughts about the whole thing and probably wondered what he hell he was thinking when he said he'd drive over.

Even if Kei wouldn't have already guessed it, it shows. Akiteru's perched _ever_ so awkwardly, on the edge of the bed the way Kei was days ago, with the same posture, which would make him laugh if _he_ wasn't busy wondering what the hell Akiteru was thinking when he said he'd drive over.

There is also the little fact of Akiteru never actually having seen Kei's apartment until now. Kei had readied a _Tadashi will help me move in_ when he was packing, but Akiteru never even offered in the first place, and maybe that had hurt, but maybe Kei'd had it coming. Whatever it is, the fact is that Akiteru is currently perched on the edge of Kei's bed, in a bomber jacket and jeans, foot tapping on the wooden paneling of the floor as he tries not to look around _too_ obviously.

Kei doesn't bother, for once, to hide how he's looking at his brother. His hair a combined mess of sleep and how he must have run his hands through it over and over while driving, eyes brown and soft, face tired but not exhausted. No, Kei leans against the back of his chair and looks at Akiteru openly, wondering what the hell he was thinking but realising with every passing second that somewhere, somewhere, he knew. Somewhere, he knew he only had to look. Only had to ask.

On cue, Akiteru finally turns his gaze on Kei, locks eyes with him more frankly than they've done in years, five years, now. It's so warm, so clear, like Akiteru didn't know what the hell he was thinking but he doesn't regret it anymore now that they're looking at each other.

'Talk to me,' Akiteru says, and Kei...Kei does.

He tells Akiteru about everything. He doesn't start with _there was a Cherry Red Prius;_ he starts with _on the first day we had orientation and I was twenty minutes early and the building hadn't opened yet._ He starts with _I really couldn't figure out what to make for dinner every day, I thought there just aren't enough recipes in the world and that it all comes down to noodles and rice._ He starts with _my neighbour slipped me a note saying that my apartment is haunted._

He tells Akiteru about Yachi, and about the puppy, and about how much Yamaguchi loves his degree like he's found his calling. He tells Akiteru about Furihata, and Kindaichi, and Kunimi, and about how everyone from the first years to the fourth years bows down to Gecko Tooru. He tells Akiteru about Kenma's ridiculous fucking cat, about the photoshoot with the silk suits and canes and how Nishinoya told him to pretend to lean forward and how _hard_ it is to fucking pretend to fucking lean forward.

He tells Akiteru about Kuroo, then. Backtracks to the end of July and confesses that he drinks now, confesses that at the end of some nights he's only one shot away from picking up the phone and calling up. He backtracks to the end of July and Bokuto's disastrous Jägerbombs, and tells Akiteru that if he stops concentrating his feet always take him to the same little café, bakery, coffeeshop.

He tell Akiteru about the Cherry Red Prius. Backtracks to the end of July, and the start of August, and a blackberry muffin that he didn't order, a raspberry one that he did. He's pacing now, that familiar annoyance at Kuroo so invincible that it hasn't died down even now, indignation making his voice so loud that he has to consciously bring it down once or twice. He paces from his desk to the bed, picks up a pillow and puts it back down, nearly trips over one of Akiteru's now-outstretched legs, then goes back to his desk, picks up a pen and scribbles on a sticky note.

He doesn't say he fell in love; he doesn't need to. Instead he talks about Kuroo's ugly handwriting and stupid hair, and that godawful coffee that he chooses to pour down his throat every morning. He talks about putting Christmas lights up at _Le Petit Dream,_ says _he sang a song for me and he thought I wasn't there._

He talks about the bandaids and the ice and he doesn't lie, he doesn't hide; he tells Akiteru what he said ten days ago. He says _I fucked up_ and says it again because he likes how it sounds. 'I fucked up. I fucked up.'

Stops there, a little out of breath, and he's never been this refreshingly _honest_ about anything, not like this— not this childishly, this petulantly, this _loudly_ , and he missed this, missed being so upfront and open with someone, anyone, Akiteru. It shows, of all things, how despite it all he'd never once doubted that Akiteru would be there for him.

That he only had to look, and ask— and the fact that this was the root of his guilt all these years is a fact that's easier to face right now, past midnight with some liquor still in him, and Akiteru sitting right there on the bed, legs pulled up now, crossed, a pillow in his lap. And God damn it, Kei's sorry. Kei's so fucking sorry. Kei's so fucking sorry.

Akiteru's smiling at him. 'Ran out of steam?'

'A little,' Kei replies.

'Okay,' Akiteru says. He's still smiling, and while Kei has _missed_ that smile like a limb, he also isn't sure why it has a place here, right now. Yes, he might have taken— he checks— about twenty minutes to relay his entire academic year so far to his brother, but he also ended that on a triple chorus of _I fucked up._ He is _also_ mildly terrified that he might not be done crying yet, and that would be something else entirely.

'I'm glad you fought,' Akiteru says, then, and Kei chokes on his swallow. 'I'm serious. I'm so happy that you fought with that boy.'

'Tetsurou.'

'Tetsurou. That's right. I'm very glad you had this ugly fight with Tetsurou.'

'Why,' Kei asks blankly. He's still standing, one hand on the edge of his desk, the wood digging a dull line into his palm. 'What. Why.'

'Why?' Akiteru smiles again, tilts his head to the side, and Kei wonders if this is what their father would've looked like had Kei been able to take the same problem to him. 'Because this boy of yours doesn't allow people to ease in through a gate. There's no gate. You've got to break a boundary.'

Kei stiffens, visibly, at the words. That's Kuroo, all right; someone whose boundaries you don't see until you break them. Someone who doesn't look breakable until you— _don't break shit you don't plan on fixing._

'I—'

'Or,' Akiteru cuts in, still looking at Kei with that same smile, 'you can vault over it. No damage done.'

Kei stares at him.

Kei stares at him for a full minute. Maybe more. And Akiteru lets him.

'I'm glad you fought, kiddo,' he repeats. There is an unsaid— but not unheard— _like we should have._ 'Because now you can talk.'

 

●●●

 

Much later, when it's hitting the hysterical hours of the morning where they can actually laugh at the sound of someone hooting and screaming in the parking lot, Akiteru turns to him with a serious, serious expression that makes something catch in Kei's throat.

'What?' he asks, reconsidering everything for a moment.

'Do you,' Akiteru says solemnly, 'actually have bananas? I'm hungry as hell.'

 

●●●

 

When all is said and done, _talking_ is much easier in theory than it is in execution.

In the first place, Kei takes a full two days after Akiteru leaves to gather the guts required to actually go to _Le Petit Complication,_ and when he _does_ end up there it's something past two in the morning, and it's _cold_ outside, and Kei stands by the back door for a good long time before he remembers that he can't enter from the back door without texting Kuroo (and after closing hours, not from the front door either) and stumbles into a puddle of dejection again.

It's not as strong as it was before, because that one full day with Akiteru really did wonders that he hadn't known were any longer possible for him. It's not as strong, but it's not completely gone either, and he's too much of a pessimist to think that just because he was laughing a day ago like he hasn't laughed in weeks, that everything will be all right in five minutes straight. (And then again, if something can go wrong, something can go right. If something can go wrong, something can go right.)

All it actually serves to do is keep him standing dumbly outside the back door until he decides to just sit on the pavement right next to it, just behind Kuroo's red damn car, with his legs folded against his chest and his arms wrapped around them. Before he really knows it, he's leaning his head against his knees and closing his eyes. Kuroo's probably almost done cleaning up, and even if he isn't, he'll come to the car at _some_ point. It's not all that cold, and he doesn't have class tomorrow, and he's doing a stupid impulsive thing for once and it's _so_ stupid and _so_ impulsive, and he missed this goddamn café so much.

The next thing he registers is the touch of fingertips on his temples; gentle.

He opens his eyes slowly, and he can't see anything for a moment until he blinks and focuses.

In the moonlight and the dim yellow rays of the outer displays of the café, Kuroo's face, even worried and unclear as it is, looks so tired and beautiful that Kei can't even say anything, can only stare. And Kuroo doesn't say anything either, just keeps looking at him with a furrow in his eyebrows that Kei has never seen, this kind of pained pull to them— and he raises the hand not holding Kei's glasses and puts it on Kei's face and it's so warm. It's so warm.

Then Kuroo's straightening up, pulling Kei with him and opening the back door in one swift move. He leads Kei inside, maybe a little on the rougher side than Kei would've expected but something that he can more than understand given the absolute _scare_ he must've given Kuroo, sitting just outside like that. So he lets Kuroo lead him inside, to the couch, lets Kuroo push him down onto it, takes in the way the smell of coffee and chocolate has seeped into the cushions.

And then— Kuroo turns away without a word, makes for the kitchen. Kei wonders why he isn't nervous at the sight of Kuroo retreating, why he's calmly taking his shoes off instead and curling up on the couch. It's only when he's already horizontal and cozy in his— no, Akiteru's hoodie that he stole years ago, that he realises it.

It's his safe place. This is his safe place. This couch is his safe place, and he never even knew that it was.

So Kei doesn't worry about Kuroo going back into the kitchen, and instead, he closes his eyes and sleeps.

 

●●●

 

When he wakes up again, Kuroo's on the floor, his back against the couch and a thin battery lamp clipped to the textbook he's reading. Kei considers just leaving him be for a moment, but that— he's here to talk. He isn't here to magically gain forgiveness by virtue of just approaching Kuroo again. That's not the kind of _seeing it through_ that Bokuto was talking about, nor the vaulting over the boundary that Akiteru was talking about. If he expected Kuroo to pretend everything was all right just because Kei _showed_ up again, he'd be no different from whoever it was that made Kuroo this way in the first place.

No, Kei's here to talk. It's a conviction that's only strengthened when he catches (next to his folded glasses) sight of the mug of hot chocolate on the far end of the table, with a coaster on it, like that's what Kuroo went back into the kitchen for. (And Kei knows that's what Kuroo went back into the kitchen for.)

So instead of leaving Kuroo to read his textbook in peace— and of course he's still reading, still studying, still working— Kei straightens up slowly, gives him a chance to close it and put it on the table.

This time when Kuroo turns around, he doesn't look worried anymore. He doesn't look puzzled, he just...he just looks. Without reservations the way he's always done (but without the _smile_ ) and without mischief, without questions or maybe with questions that he's hidden too well.

And Kei opens his damn mouth and says, 'Can I have a raspberry muffin?'.

He didn't mean to let that slip, but once he does, he doesn't expect Kuroo _not_ to laugh. But Kuroo doesn't laugh. Kuroo doesn't laugh at all; he only closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them again, and he smiles.

He smiles, and Kei's heart quietly, quietly snips away at a hundred ropes that he'd tied tight around it. He feels them give way one by one, and when they fall, he can't stand to be alone anymore.

So when Kuroo stands up and walks to the kitchen without a word, Kei trails after him. His thin socks only doing so much good against the kitchen tile, but he doesn't mind. His hair in a mess, but he doesn't mind. His glasses— that one he _does_ mind, doubles back to get them with a small laugh at himself.

Kuroo's efficiency has always been a force to be reckoned with, but it's honestly comical, the speed with which he starts to assemble ingredients, pulling out frozen raspberries and milk, vanilla and flour. Pulling on his apron, putting his phone away. It's almost like he's processing Kei's request like a bakery order, and Kei would be hurt at the implication if he didn't know how important it is to Kuroo to get bakery orders right.

So he takes his cue. He takes his cue, and takes a breath.

'You know,' Kuroo says before him, 'it's like...I have a house, right?'

'A house,' Kei repeats. 'Right.'

'And I have these curtains, and this carpet, and I've got all these...these lights, and shit. It's all set up. It's...I mean, it's all set up. It's functional. And I don't want to do more with it because when I was setting it up, someone kept telling me that it would never be beautiful. '

Kei passes him the whisk when he rolls up his sleeves, and freezes for a second when their hands brush before curling his own back towards himself.

'And people visit and all, right? I mean, no one really goes all the way inside, but the living room's great, and everyone's like, _oh, this is great. We love your house._ Like, no one's talking a lot about it or anything, but if you ask, they love the house. So I'm fine, right?'

Kei leans against the counter, hoodie sleeves probably already gathering stray flour (Kuroo's a fantastic baker; he's not a _neat_ one). Kuroo talks, yes. Kei knows Kuroo talks, almost never shuts up when he's taken it upon himself at six in the morning to roll out of bed and be a living, breathing annoyance and a pain in Kei's neck, or Kenma's neck, or whichever professor that he's needling for the week to bump his grade to a _perfect_ 95\. But Kei isn't oblivious; he'd learned long ago that Kuroo says more with his silences than he does with words; that all his babble serves as cover.

So to hear him talk like this, it's nerve-wracking, almost, like he fears that Kuroo's going to give him a lecture and then throw him out of the kitchen— but he also _knows_ Kuroo. May not know everything about him, like what boundaries he can erase and what boundaries he can't break and what boundaries he should vault over, but knows that Kuroo is patient. Knows that Kuroo is patient, like he was the first time he taught Kei how to slow dance.

So he listens.

'I'm fine, right?' Kuroo says, as he moves the whisk in the bowl. 'I think my house is fine, they think my house is fine.'

He pauses. 'And then someone comes in, and they're like, _hey, has anyone told you that these curtains suck? And what about that shitty ass carpet? Are you kidding me?_ '

Kei snorts a little at that, thinks about saying _I wasn't all that mean,_ but maybe he was. He remembers the words in his mouth like the taste of something terrible; _you think this is_ working? So he doesn't say anything, and listens.

'And for a second I just feel like I was— like— like I was slapped in the face, you know? I mean, I thought my house was fine. How could you just shittalk my curtains like that to my face?'

Kuroo laughs, too. Taps out the whisk and then puts it away, sets the bowl aside. Kei listens to his silence, and waits for his words.

'But...It's like, someone comes in after all that time and just tells you something like that to your face, it makes you think.'

_It makes you think._

Kuroo turns around. He looks at Kei, and there's flour on his cheek, and even more on his apron, and Kei doesn't ever, ever, ever want to look away.

'I guess I—' Kuroo breaks off, smiles at the floor. 'Somewhere I knew that the house wasn't fine. But it was functional. And I didn't want to make it better, because I could use that time to make it shinier instead, and I thought that was more important.'

'Kuroo,' Kei says, even though his voice is a little thick. 'Please stop talking in metaphors. It's three in the morning and I'm not Ushijima.'

'Shut up,' Kuroo laughs. 'You shittalked my curtains, so deal with it.'

'I did _not_ shittalk your curtains. All I said was...all I said was.' Kei takes a deep breath, and his cue. 'All I said was...they're...big curtains. And it's— it's such a beautiful house. It's just— the curtains. You— if you need help with the— even if it's just someone who stands and kind of yells at you while you fix the curtains—'

'Good God, you're terrible at this,' Kuroo says, but his smile is growing wider and Kei's own is actually flickering to life. 'Stick to statistics, Tsukki.'

'I'm sorry,' Kei says, quietly. 'I shouldn't have said what I said. I know there were nicer ways to say it. I'm sorry.'

Kuroo doesn't reply, just looks at Kei with that smile still on his face, like he's waiting, the way he's always waiting for Kei. The way he's always waiting. And honestly, every now and then, things align and Kei actually understands _before_ the moment passes, what Kuroo is waiting for. He knows what Kuroo's waiting for this time; honesty in exchange for honesty. And Kei wants to be honest.

Kei's here to talk.

'I hate blackberries,' he says.

'I know.'

Kei's here to talk.

'My brother,' he says. 'His name's Akiteru. He— uh, he's. He's seven years older to me.'

'Wow, that's sure some gap.' Kuroo's leaning against the counter, too, now; gaze focused and sincere, and Kei inhales because he's here to talk.

'My brother,' he says again. 'When our parents died, he was busy all the time. Funeral, paperwork, all that. So for two weeks straight, all I got for breakfast was blackberry jam sandwiches.'

Kuroo swallows. Kei sees the movement of his throat, the slight tightening of his jaw.

'Every day,' he continues. 'Blackberry jam sandwiches. He kind of went on autopilot.'

Honesty in exchange for honesty. This isn't why Kei was so angry ten days ago. Kei has never blamed Akiteru for his hatred of blackberries. (Actually, Kei has never blamed Akiteru for anything, which was once one of the only things he'd done right when it came to Akiteru.) Blackberries are not why Kei was so angry ten days ago, but he's gathering his courage. He's here to talk, and he'll do it. He swears he will, he just needs—

'Can I ask what happened?' Kuroo's voice is soft, but not unnaturally, not pityingly. No, it's just soft because it's what Kei needs.

When Kei was ten years old, his— and Akiteru's— parents took the car out for a day trip. He can't exactly say that they never came back, but it's more that they didn't come back in the way they were expected to. Nor did the car, for that matter.

'I wish you'd drive safer,' he says. 'That stupid red car of yours.'

Kuroo doesn't say anything for a long, long, long time. He averts his gaze immediately, and it's human, and Kei wants to smile because he's always had the oddest urge to smile when he talks about this (and he's never really talked about it often). Kei wants to smile so he does, a faint one, and Kuroo stares at his own hands before he's wiping them off and going to the back of the kitchen, opening some kind of drawer.

Kei's absolutely confused for a few seconds until Kuroo returns, and he sees what's in those hands, why Kuroo wiped his hands.

It's been seven months since he last saw his headphones, but they look as good as new— untouched, but not dusty either, as if Kuroo's been taking them out every few days just to keep them maintained. There's something in Kei that goes blank at the sight of them, and he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to do, because then Kuroo's holding them out in _his_ version of an apology and Kei— Kei doesn't want that. Because—

'No, keep them,' he says, and Kuroo looks, for a moment, so _shocked._ 'Give yourself some credit. I don't— I don't even need them anymore.'

See, Kei's here to talk but he never told Akiteru that he's in love with Kuroo, and if he ever tells _Kuroo,_ that'll be the damn day. But he can at least say this. He can at least tell Kuroo what he should be saying and Kuroo should be hearing, so he says it again.

'Give yourself some credit.'

So Kuroo does. He takes the headphones and puts them around his neck, carefully, the tips of his unruly black hair touching the red of the padding. The wire is wrapped around them, and he looks a little ridiculous, and a lot more handsome, and Kei steps forward. Kuroo looks terrified, too; it's almost childlike and heartbreaking and Kei loves him so, so much.

When he puts his arms around Kuroo, he wants to say it again, wants to say _I'm sorry_ and _please sleep_ and _please fix your stupid hair, for fuck's sake._ But he swallows it all and closes his eyes, and he feels his headphones digging into his collarbones as Kuroo moves to hug him back, so shaky and tight.

'The muffins,' Kuroo says, so shaky and tight.

'I don't care,' Kei whispers. 'No offence, Vercetti, but I really don't care.'

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY DECEMBER. HAPPY DECEMBER. LET'S TRY TO MAKE IT HAPPY. I LOVE YOU ALL.
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/soldierpoetking) and [Tumblr](http://sturlsons.tumblr.com).


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